Sunday, August 4, 2013

John and I
have been watching Firefly
lately. Don’t ask me why it’s
taken us so long to watch a show
that has been recommended over and over by friends, family members, colleagues
and strangers. Maybe because we
couldn’t find it in streaming form, but we’ve finally discovered Hulu Plus, so
watch out, old television shows!

Firefly is Joss Whedon’s take on
sci-fi. It’s kind of a blend of a
western and a space-travel show.
In fact, in the “If you like this, you might also like…” recommendations
from Hulu, the suggestions include Big
Valley, Gunsmoke and Lost in Space. As we’ve been watching the show, several thoughts have
occurred to me.

For one
thing, Joss Whedon is so incredibly brilliant! He awes me with the way he can take a seemingly über-fantastical
genre and group of characters, and then weave the relationships and the story
in such a way that you not only care deeply about these people, but feel that
you’ve learned something profound about the human condition, too. For years I laughed at my friends who
watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That is, until I finally decided that
I’d give it a try, just out of friendship’s sake. If my memory serves me, John and I gobbled the first season
in three days. And come on! Dr.
Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog? I
mean, who but Joss Whedon could create an online sensation to keep himself busy
during the writer’s strike?

Another
thing that occurs to me is, how come so few futuristic stories involve
pets?

Okay, so. Firefly
is set at a time after we’ve managed to destroy Earth (like, 2020?). The intro narration explains, “The
Earth got used up, so we moved out and terraformed a whole new galaxy of
Earths, some rich and flush with the new technologies, others not so much.” In the episodes, the only animals we
see are horses pulling wagons. So, work animals, yes. Pets, no. This
seems to hold for all sci-fi movies and TV shows.

Two
acknowledgments right now. I know
some of you are already thinking, “Wait, what about Ridley’s cat?” I’ll get to that. Others of you are no doubt thinking,
“Wow! I had no idea she was such a complete and total nerd!” Let me just say, I’m no Stephen
Colbert, able to quote lengthy passages of Star
Wars or delve into the nuances of elfish religion as depicted in The Lord of the Rings. And I’ve never been to a Comicon.

So there’s
that.

Back to
Ridley’s cat. I will admit that
once that cat was introduced, I worried about it through the entire movie. I could care less whether Sigourney
Weaver got eaten by the slimy alien.
Where the heck was the cat?
But think about it. How
many other space travel movies and television shows involve animals? If I were zipping all over the
universe, I’d want a pet to share it with. And if I were a pioneer terraforming new Earths, I’d most
definitely include dogs and cats.
After all, we needed dogs so badly on the only Earth we know that we’ve
co-evolved with them over the last 40,000 years or so.

Here’s an
interesting tidbit: We share 98% of our genetic makeup with chimps and bonobos,
which are exceptionally intelligent primates. Like humans, bonobos and chimps have a notion of the unseen
forces of nature, for example, the properties of gravity—if you drop something
out of a tree, it will fall to the ground. Dogs don’t fully grasp that concept. You know what they do understand, far
better than our big-brained, 98%-alike relatives? Us. By the age
of six weeks old, dogs
show skills at understanding human gestures that no other species has. None. They are especially good at catching on to cooperative
gestures, like pointing. Dogs
quickly figure out that pointing means “That’s where the treat is hidden” or
“Your toy fell on the bookshelf when I threw it, not the floor.” Dogs are so attuned to us (and we to
them) that yawns can be as catching between you and your dog as they are
between you and your baby or you and your partner.

I’m sure it
comes as no surprise to anyone reading this post that the pet supplies industry
is booming. In 2012, Americans
spent over $52 billion on their pets.
In 1994, that number was in the high $20 billions. Interestingly enough, the climb in
spending has been steady, even during the height of the Great Recession. We love our pets. I think it’s safe to conclude that any
human traveling from Earth (whether beautiful blue-green planet or charred
cinder) would have a pet—ideally in multiples to ensure their continued
existence—along with them.

So in
casting through my admittedly limited memory, here’s what I come up with for
earthly pets who accompany space travelers. Just to be clear, I’m not counting non-space-travel types of
sci-fi (Back to the Future or Austin Powers), pet-like robots (Dr. Who or Star Wars), alien pets (Lost
in Space) or co-workers (Star Wars
or Cowboy Bebop).

Other than
Ridley’s cat in Alien, they’re all in
Star Trek. No, not tribbles (see “alien pets,” above). I’m talking about Data’s cat in TNG and Porthos, the Captain’s dog in Enterprise (which I admit, I’ve never
seen—I looked that one up). So
hats off to the Star Trek franchise!

Consider
this a challenge to sci-fi film and television producers everywhere. We come from Earth. We love our pets. We demand to bring them with us on our
space explorations!

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Temperatures
in the 70s, the sun beating down, the hint of a breeze blowing, and there we
stood, Cleo and I, poised to begin our very first obedience trial ever—the
Beginner Novice level. After four
hours at the show, meeting, greeting, observing and weathering one new
experience after another, Cleo sagged exhaustedly beside me in the heel
position. The judge waited,
clipboard in hand, pen poised to mark our scores for each exercise.

“Cleo,
heel!” I chirped. She dragged
herself to her feet and plodded beside me.

The first of
the series of little signs nailed into the grass read “Heel slow.” I slowed my pace. Cleo slowed hers.

“Heel
normal.” I returned to the
original pace. Cleo didn’t. Each
time the leash tightens, it’s a loss of points.

“Left turn.” Piece of cake. Except I could feel Cleo lagging.

“About
turn.” This is a heel as the
handler reverses direction a full 180 degrees. It’s something Cleo is really, really good at. Plus, it’s the spot where the judge
suggested we use our single permitted phrase of praise in order to encourage
the dog to keep up. I made the
turn and glanced down at Cleo. Her
jaw was locked in determination.
She looked as if she were being put through the Bataan Puppy March. “Good girl!” I crowed. She gave me a disbelieving glare.

“Heel
fast.” I doubled my pace. Cleo one-and-a-halfed hers. The leash tightened. I could feel the judge scratching off
the points.

“Heel
normal.” No problem.

“Stop.” Now, the trick here is that when the
handler stops, the dog is supposed to sit without a command. This is something Cleo has been doing
without fail, even with distractions, for the last two years. I was pretty confident at this
moment. Except she just stood
there. More points lost. I looked at Kim and John, just on the
other side of the fence, and rolled my eyes. Kim snorted.
John smiled and continued his play by play on the phone for his son Jackson
in South Carolina. I started to
giggle.

“Exercise
finished!” called the judge. As I
turned to go to the starting point of the next task, I heard Kim laughing. “Don’t laugh!” exclaimed the poodle
woman, sitting nearby. “She’ll be
upset!” No, really. She won’t.

The two kind
stewards strode into the ring and stood about five feet apart. It was time for the figure eight. Cleo and I wove around the two human
posts, stopping for a sit each time we got to the middle. I could feel her lagging, the leash
pulling tight. I slowed down. Cleo slowed even more. Okay, that was a mistake. But each time we got to the center, she
sat beautifully.

Next task,
long sit-stay. Cleo’s job was to
sit in the center of the ring without moving as I walked the full
perimeter. This was the exercise
that had given rise to one of the most exciting moments of the day so far when
a Sheltie in the previous group made a break for it as its mom hit the far side
of the ring. A steward had stomped
on its leash and brought it up short, but dog and handler were
disqualified. In fact, pretty much
every dog had struggled through this exercise, not because they were having
trouble staying, but because they all got a bit anxious and had to peer fixedly
at their handlers during the full circuit. I told Cleo to stay and set off towards the fence. As I turned along the first edge, I
stole a peek at her. Her face was
turned away from me, into the breeze, her tongue lolling contentedly. I heard John say, “Now Joycie’s walking
all the way around the ring.
Yeah! Cleo’s staying
perfectly.” I got back to my
starting point and turned to head back to Cleo. She looked at me, calm and relaxed. “Exercise finished!” the judge called,
a hint of praise (not to say surprise) in his tone.

And now it
was time for the final task: the off-leash recall. I positioned Cleo, removed her leash and told her to stay,
then walked to my position, roughly ten feet away. I turned. “Call
your dog,” said the judge. I did,
hoping that this wouldn’t be one of those times that she simply sat staring at
me as if she’d never heard the words “Cleo, come!” in her life before. To my delight, she stood up immediately
and started walking toward me.
Now, in an ideal world, the dog should bound toward the handler with joy
and delight. I was happy with plod
toward the handler with duty and resignation. Halfway across the great divide, something in the grass
caught her nose. She paused to
sniff. I waited for a second,
hoping she would leave it and continue on. Sigh. “Cleo,” I
called enticingly, “come!” Her
nose still deep in the grass, she walked toward me once again. Hurray!

A foot from
me, she stopped dead, some fascinating scent completely engaging her. Knowing I would lose a raft of points,
I called her once more. “Cleo,
come!” Not the slightest
acknowledgement. Resigned to total
failure, I stepped forward, snagged the ring of her slip-collar, and gave it a
tug. She took the last steps to me
and sat in perfect position, gazing up at me devotedly. “Exercise finished,” said the judge
with a wave of his hand. I snapped
Cleo’s collar back on and started out of the ring.

“Congratulations,”
said the judge. “You qualified.”

“You’re
kidding!” Have I mentioned that
sometimes my mouth works faster than my good sense?

“Naw,” he
said, good-naturedly. “She was
almost to you before you had to help her in.”

Qualifying
means that out of a total possible score of 200 points, the dog and handler
have earned at least 170. It turns
out, as we learned once all the other dogs had gone and we were called back
into the ring for prizes, we’d earned a total of 183 points. Percentage-wise, a pretty respectable
A-. In fact, the next highest
score was the dog who won fourth place.

I know I
said it really didn’t matter to me if we did well or not, but I am so very
proud of Cleo.

So I started
this whole story a couple weeks ago by saying how much I love to learn. What did I learn that Saturday at the
Del Monte Kennel Club annual show?

If you want
your dog to be fresh and perky, don’t arrive four hours early to an obedience
trial.

I am much
harder on both myself and Cleo than others are.

It feels
wonderful to let go of expectations: Even when I thought we were failing
miserably, I was having a wonderful time.

I really
don’t need to do an obedience trial ever again. And no one can make me.

It is an
extraordinary gift to have a dear friend and a beloved husband cheering (and
laughing) you on.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

As Cleo and
I made our way from the show rings back to the obedience area of the Del Monte
Kennel Club annual show last weekend, a woman standing in line at one of the
vendor booths spun around excitedly.
“Is that a Bedlington Terrier?” she demanded. “You almost never see those. Are there others here?” I told her there were four altogether: Cleo, Lover Boy,
P.T., and P.T.’s mom. She looked
at me, stunned. Her jaw actually
dropped open. “That’s more than
there were at the Cow Palace,” she said, referring to last January’s Golden
Gate Kennel Club show. I can’t be held responsible for San Francisco’s lack of
Bedlington street cred. But I
always tell people: We’re making a comeback.

Not that I’m
necessarily one to champion plunging into the obedience world with a terrier.

Life was
pretty sweet last Saturday as John, our friend Kim, Cleo and I stood watching
the Graduate Novice class teams doing their thing. It was a rare, sunny 70 degree day on the grass. We commented on each breed’s form and
style as one dog after another made graceful leaps over the jumps, retrieving
little wooden dumbbells. Happy
dogs and proud owners bounced through the various tasks until, finally, all the
dogs returned to the ring together for the prolonged down-stay. That completed, points totaled and
awards handed out, I figured it was time to register with the steward. I stood politely by the table as she
totted up numbers. The task clearly
required her undivided attention.
A gust of wind swept a paper off the table and she made a grab for it,
missing it by a foot. I ran it down
and placed it back on the table, tucking it safely under her show program. Not even a glance in my direction. A woman with a poodle came up on the
steward’s other side and made a joke.
The two shared a laugh. I took
in the poodle, then turned to share a look with John and Kim. Had I been that poodle, I would have
been too embarrassed to show my face in public. Remember Kim Cattrall in the 80s? Big, poofy hair, straight bangs? Or maybe Madonna in her glam rock getup? Big frizzy hair, little bitty bangs? Take that image and slap it on a
poodle. You’ve got it.

John was
getting increasingly testy as the steward continued to ignore me, but I
suddenly realized that I didn’t need to register yet. Sure, it was 11:30 and we were supposed to have started at
11:15, but it dawned on me that since we had just been watching the last of the
Graduate Novice class, we still had all of the Beginner Novice B to sit
through. The Beginner Novice class
is divided into two groups: The A group are the true first-timers, like Cleo
and me. The B group are those
handlers with some experience, either owner-handlers who have gone through the
Novice trials in previous years with a different dog, or handlers who are
working with someone else’s dog.
The B group gets to go first.
There were about a dozen of them.
I sat back down with John, Kim and Cleo.

As the
morning turned to afternoon, even I started to get restless. Initially, for the first seven or eight
dogs, say, I was pretty interested because Cleo and I have practiced all of the
tasks, and we know what each is supposed to look like. Kim was engaged for a good portion of
the time. She is a dog lover and
enjoyed talking with handlers, meeting different dogs, and occasionally taking
a break to visit a friend of ours who was working the Rally ring on the other
side of the field. John, a truly
loving husband and dedicated puppy-daddy, fought mightily to stay awake. He checked his email. He scanned Facebook. He tracked down and brought back a cup
of coffee. Cleo, not a fan of the
heat to begin with and having been on high alert and sensory overload for
nearly four hours, finally gave up and stretched out full length on her side,
all four legs straight in front of her.
She wouldn’t close her eyes, of course; she might miss something. But she didn’t even raise her head when
dogs trotted past her on their way in and out of the ring.

Shortly
before 1 PM, the Beginner Novice A class got to do our walk-through and
orientation to the course. We
registered without a hitch, the steward even being almost cordial. Mercifully, Cleo and I were to go
fourth. In a desperate effort to
wake her up, I ran her over to an open patch of grass and did a few
exercises. How do I put this? She lacked her usual élan. She plodded through some heeling
exercises. Dragged herself towards
me on recall. Lay down gratefully
on command. When I danced around in front of her acting goofy, trying to get
her riled up, she just stared. We
went back to the ring.

As dog
three, a Sheltie, entered the ring, John’s phone rang. It was his son, Jackson, calling from
South Carolina. He was about to go
on watch, but wanted to check in. Towards
the end of the Sheltie’s very fine performance, Cleo and I got into the “on
deck” position. The two other
stewards wished us luck, the judge called us in and wished us luck, we crossed
to the starting point. This put us
only feet from Kim and John, our backs to them. I heard John, on the phone with Jackson, say, “Okay, they’re
about to start!” The judge asked
if we were ready. As we would ever
be. Off we went.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Even before
I became a teacher, I believed that the best possible day was one on which I
learned a ton. Whether I was in
rehearsal gathering loads and loads of information on my character or in
classes absorbing book-learning or poring over the Sunday New York Times, I felt full and happy. Yesterday was just that kind of day.

One year ago
this weekend, Cleo became a certified Therapy Dog. Partly to commemorate that anniversary and partly to redeem
myself, I registered us for yesterday’s obedience trial. A year ago, I registered for the trial,
too, but chickened out at the last minute. I was convinced I was going to make a complete fool out of
myself and that I would be opening up my baby girl to ridicule and shame. Okay, maybe a little projection there—shame? Really? So this year, with a great deal more confidence, I showed up
ready to have a good time.

Several
things went into my new attitude.
Sure, Cleo’s training has been going well, but let’s be honest: I’m not
one of those people who works concertedly at polishing her training every
day. This last week, I made sure
to take her, several times, to the site of the trials so that she could
associate the location with the exercises we do and so I could work with her on
paying attention to me as she’s walking through grass—not exactly an easy thing
for a terrier to do, let me tell you!
Mostly, though, I rely on our weekly classes to keep her tuned in to obedience. Still, I was pretty confident that she
could do everything required of her for the Beginner Novice trial. A lovely boost to my attitude was getting
an email from a friend with oceans of experience in all things Bedlington who
described his first obedience trial as “an exercise in humility.” Well, shoot! I thought. If
his first outing wasn’t perfect, why should I be expecting Cleo’s and mine to
be? Perhaps the most important
contributor to my new-found positive attitude was the sudden realization that I
wasn’t nervous about the process at all!
I really didn’t care if we totally blew it. I didn’t feel that either Cleo or I had anything to
prove. I was just out to enjoy the
whole thing. Who in the world have
I become!?

So the
schedule yesterday was this: a new participant’s orientation at 9:30 AM, a
group of dogs that included all two Bedlingtons showing at 10:45, the Beginner
Novice trials beginning at 11:15. Part
of the reason I was so excited to be at the show yesterday was that the two
Bedlingtons showing were Cleo’s dad and her younger half-brother. I had never met either of them in
person, so to speak.

Due to my ever-present background noise
of anxiety about not being able to see well, I decided to get to the show
grounds by 9 so that I could easily find the location of the orientation. I left the house at 8:30 for the ten
minute drive to Carmel Valley. I’d
thought of everything—slip collar and flat collar, grooming supplies, treats
and snacks for both of us, water for each in separate containers, hat and
sunscreen, wallet with ID, cards with info on how to buy The Educated Dog (just in case), phone with the PDF of the show
schedule pre-loaded. We were at
the gate when I realized what I’d forgotten. Cash to pay for parking. I almost never carry more than a couple dollars. It’s not out of design, just out of
forgetfulness that I might need to buy something that I can’t use plastic for. The very kind fellow in charge of
parking waved me through with a cheerful, “Just bring me ten bucks when ya can
get it!” The day was off to a good
start!

Cleo and I
made a quick tour of the rings in evidence. Then we made another.
In very short order we found ring 11, the one where we would be doing
our obedience trial in another couple hours. What we didn’t see was ring 2 where the Bedlingtons would be
showing. Or, frankly, any number
lower than 10. Nor could I find
anything resembling a check-in desk.
A woman nearby was working with her dog, a Border Collie, and I asked
her where to check in. She was a
fount of information, reassuring me that I would check in at the ring shortly before
my “go” time. My anxiety notched
down to yellow alert. I thanked
her and turned to leave, then spotted a classmate in a Rally ring with one of
her Golden Retrievers. This woman
is a wonderful trainer and her dog looked like he was having the time of his
life. I stopped to watch them, rapt,
until I realized that the woman next to me, standing with her Shetland
Sheepdog, had asked me a question.
“I’m sorry?” I said.

“Do you do
Rally?” Ah, no. But I think it looks really cool. Within no time, she had given me the
lowdown. In Rally, the handler
directs her dog from task to task as designated by little signs placed around
the course. She can speak to the
dog offering command, correction, encouragement, or praise. It is, said my informant, bonding and
teamwork incarnate. The last team
having gone, she, leaning heavily on her cane, limped off with her Sheltie to
learn their score. It was at some
point here that I suddenly realized that there must be another whole group of
rings—the ones where people were actually showing their dogs. I explained this possibility to Cleo
and we decided to go on an explore.
We headed in a likely direction and, after weaving through a forest of
RVs, we crested a small hill to see, laid out below us, the tent city of
owners, handlers, grooming tables, show rings and camp followers peddling their
wares of dog toys, training paraphernalia, grooming tools, gourmet organic dog
food, dog advocacy materials, and gelato.
A little overwhelmed, we determined to make a circuit of the perimeter.

As another
good omen, the first person we saw was Pluis, our trainer. She was clearly decked out as an owner
of show dogs, not in her usual training class civvies. Cleo didn’t care; she was ecstatic to
see Pluis and flung herself onto her shoes in adoration. Pluis, in her usual manner, praised
Cleo for so cleverly and fortuitously attending a dog show, then asked me if
there were Bedlingtons showing.
Two, I told her! “Perfect!”
she exclaimed. I came very close
to flinging myself on her shoes. She just has a way of inspiring
devotion. “And you are…” she
continued questioningly. Beginner
Novice A. “Very good!” she smiled,
then leaned down to pat Cleo again.
“Break a leash!” she cried, heading back towards her own dogs.

We continued
down the rows, peering into tents for the telltale alien noses and arched
bodies of the Bedlington. From a
distance, I saw the bright yellow canopy reading “Terrier Group.” We forged toward it and stood quivering
at the entrance. Two elegant, eminently
graceful Bedlington Terriers stood on grooming tables. I recognized the far dog in an
instant. An elder statesman in
streamlined blue, a grand champion in lamb’s costume. Cleo’s daddy, Lover Boy. I was twitterpated; I was in the presence of a star! I got a little misty-eyed! And on the near table, a
huggable, beautiful liver boy named Petey, Cleo’s half-brother. His petite and curly mom took an active
interest from the comfort of her crate.
Cleo, intrigued, stood on her hind legs and sniffed at her kin. They peered down at her from the lofty
heights of their perches. The
humans shook hands. I delighted in
hearing stories from Paul about his canine charges. It seemed as though Petey took an immediate shine to Cleo,
though she, as is her wont, became instantly shy as soon as she noticed that he
was looking at her. Each time we
saw him, all day long, he certainly perked up in her presence. Both of them showed me the gentle
kindness that is the trademark of every Bedlington I’ve ever met. Paul and I made plans to meet after we
were both done—him with his 10:45 showing, us with our 11:15 trial.

The time was
drawing near to the signing-in moment, so Cleo and I went back to ring 11 and
watched the Graduate Novice class trial.
John joined us, then shortly afterwards, our friend Kim. It was eleven o’clock. Cleo and I waited politely by the
steward, waiting for her to acknowledge us so we could sign in. Within minutes, we expected to make our
debut.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

John, the canine mountain goat and I have been frequenting a new spot on the beach for the last couple of months. It’s an exciting, wind-swept series of dunes that lead down to the rock-strewn water’s edge. The three of us pretend that we’re crossing the Northumberland moors as we trudge through the ice-plant. Cleo responds to the wind as to nothing else. You can tell that something is coming alive deep in her DNA. As it’s highly unlikely that we’ll ever get her to her deepest roots in Bedlington, UK, we try to make the most of what we have at hand. If that’s some sand dunes and a freshening breeze off the Monterey Bay, so be it.

Another reason we love this spot is because it’s so private. Nine times out of ten, we’re the only people there. It’s even rarer that we see another dog, which is fine by Cleo. Isn’t that remarkable? I grew up on the East Coast. Several summers, we vacationed at Atlantic City (pre-casinos). Really, though, it hardly matters where you go. If you’re at the shore (which is what East Coasters call the beach), all you’re hoping for is an unoccupied patch of sand that’s large enough to lay your beach towel on. Here on the Monterey Peninsula, a beach is packed if there’s a person every hundred yards or so. Of course, the water is shockingly cold all year ‘round, and during the summer, you’re more likely to be fog bound than sunbathing. This summer has been an anomaly: We’ve had a stretch of several weeks of sun with temperatures in the 70s and 80s. Everywhere you go, you hear people exclaiming, “We’re having a real summer! This is so weird!” As we read about folks getting second degree burns from the sidewalks and pavements of what the newspapers call “the West,” we can’t help but feel a little guilty. Is global warming giving us a paradise as it makes conditions untenable for large swaths of the rest of the country?

Yesterday, the weather turned. As I write, it’s 62 degrees and cloudy, and my wind chimes are tinkling softly in an intermittent and bone-chilling breeze. The poor tourists are trying to figure out what’s hit them. You can always tell the tourists in Monterey; they’re the ones shivering in diaphanous sundresses or tank-tops and short-shorts while we residents are reaching for our down vests—which we pair with flip-flops, of course. There has to be some nod to the fact it’s July. Today, Cannery Row is jam-packed with blue-lipped families who gaze about themselves and ask each other, “This is California? I thought it was supposed to be warm and sunny here. And where are all the palm trees?” I want to buy them all some hot cocoa and wrap blankets around them. John, Cleo and I love our tourists, though for different reasons. How can we not appreciate what they bring to our local economy? Cleo just loves people, especially when they stop to admire her.

Yet even with hundreds of visitors and all of the population of the Monterey Peninsula, we can still find completely empty stretches of coastline just minutes from our house. I do admit that our favorite haunt is hardly what one thinks of when one thinks “beach.” As I say, the beach itself consists mostly of a jumble of tide-smoothed rocks. For us, that’s another of its draws. Cleo has developed a mountain goat-like sure-footedness as she runs atop the rocks, pausing to stick her nose between them and snork in a fascinating scent. There is a small open patch of sand, except during the very highest tides, where she loves to run at top speed, circling around us, feinting and doubling back, charging in to tag us, then flying out for another exuberant circle.

Her absolute favorite activity, though, is boulder climbing. Just off the beach are huge, craggy granite monoliths. Sometimes they are completely cut off by crashing waves, and then the three of us gaze into tide pools and wonder at the sea anemones, the tiny fish, the hermit crabs. When the tide is all the way out, we can walk to the granite giants and climb to the top point where we take in the Bay spread out before us and breath the air that has not encountered a human being for over five thousand miles.

The other day, we were at the halfway stage: The tide was coming in, but hadn’t yet completely cut off the granite boulders. However, it hadn’t gone so far out at the last ebb that the tide pools had emptied. They were deep enough that John and I didn’t trust ourselves to pick our way over the partially submerged and decidedly slippery rocks to get to the boulders. Lower to the ground and with four legs to give her confidence, Cleo didn’t share our caution. She started out across the tide pool. Hm, a little too deep. Veer right for a shallower path. Over and up she went, scampering to the highest point. She regarded us over her shoulder, looking perplexed. “Why aren’t you guys following?” With an almost perceptible shrug, she began to pick her way along the boulder, following her nose. Waves crashed on the far side, the spray flying straight up towards the sky. Cleo sniffed on. In my mind’s eye I pictured a rogue wave sweeping up the far side of the boulder and dragging my girl off the rock and out into the Bay. “That’s far enough!” I called to her. She turned to look at us. John whistled to her. She wheeled and bounded back the way she had come, plunging confidently, if barely in control, down the side of the boulder and leaping for a rock in the middle of the tide pool. Either she misjudged the distance of the rock or the depth of the water, because she belly-flopped into the tide pool. Completely unconcerned, she pulled herself onto the rocks and presented herself at our feet, excitedly spraying water in all directions.

Born of a line that sprang from Northumberland to a family living in Texarkana and transported across the country to become so completely at home on the Central Coast of California. What a wonderful thing it is to be so adaptable.

Sunday, June 30, 2013

We have this
cat, Marvin. He is—how shall I put
this— big boned. Rotund. A portly gentleman. Frequent readers may remember that my
colleague uses him as an example when she teaches the word “corpulent” to her
ninth grade English class. “Mrs.
Sherry’s cat,” she tells them to their wonder and disbelief, “is so corpulent
that from time to time he gets wedged in the cat door.” This is a slight exaggeration. He doesn’t really get wedged. He just has to struggle a little on his
way through.

I assure
you, this is not our preference.
The fact is, Marvin works the street. He is the official Taylor Street greeting committee, and he
fulfills his job diligently.
Between the extremely popular deli on the corner and the Defense Language
Institute up the way, we get a lot of foot traffic. Marvin has his regulars who stop to pat him and exchange a
word or two on their way to and from work. They’re used to him.
Then there are those passing for the first time. They’re the ones who, as Marvin
waddl—uh, struts out to greet them, exclaim, “Wow! Look at that cat!
That’s a big cat!”

Let me
hasten to add here, before I go on with the story, that Marvin is a big cat, or a large one
anyway. He’s tall and long,
not only round. He has the hint of
tufts on his ears, and it’s very possible there is some Maine Coon in his
distant ancestry.

So anyway,
he works the street. He will walk
into any house with an open door, he will help himself to any pet food left
unguarded. Unfortunately, our
across-the-street neighbor prefers to feed her cats in her carport. That wouldn’t be my choice—I’m not fond
of raccoons—but I’d have nothing to say about it if she didn’t complain to us
that Marvin steals her cats’ food.
Hello! Then don’t leave it
out where anyone can get to it! He
doesn’t go only for the easy pickin’s, though. He likes his food just as much on the paw as in the
bowl. I think he’s uniquely
responsible for controlling the wood rat and gopher population of our
block. And he’s not selfish with
his catches; he generously leaves tidbits for us on a fairly regular
basis. A couple weeks ago, he made
the mistake of leaving one present on the side stoop rather than at the edge of
the driveway as usual. I went
outside right around dusk to recycle the junk mail and spotted Cleo looking
furtive with what I initially took to be a pair of socks in her mouth. She loves to nab John’s unguarded socks
and bury them in the backyard for ripening. Imagine my surprise when the “Ptui!” that followed my “Drop
it!” resulted in a stiff gopher corpse an inch from my bare toes.

Now, Marvin
may work the street and he may have his fans near and far, but he is definitely
our cat. When he’s in trouble—like
the time someone decided he needed a bath—he turns to us for solace and
sanctuary. When we come home from
work or an outing, he runs from wherever he’s been lounging to welcome us
back. Most distinctively, when we
take Cleo for a neighborhood walk, Marvin likes to come along. He follows behind, forty feet or so,
and narrates with rhythmic yowls.
If we head right at the end of our block, he’ll continue on with us for
another block or so, then sit by the stop sign, yowling plaintively until we’re
out of sight. He’s always back at
the house by the time we return and trots out to touch noses with Cleo. If we turn left, he will frequently
accompany us the full three-and-a-half blocks to the neighborhood park, then
sit and watch as Cleo tears at full speed around the lawn, his ears akimbo with
a look of mild disapproval on his normally bland face.

This
morning, we set out on our post-breakfast leg-stretch, planning a walk of
twenty minutes or so, just to get the blood moving. Our new neighbors were out mowing their postage stamp of a
yard, so we crossed the street to introduce ourselves. Marvin emerged from wherever he had
been camping to join the general greeting and introductions. He sat aloof as Cleo licked hands and liberally
fawned. As we said goodbye and
continued down the street, I heard Penny say, “Better hurry! You’ll miss your walk.” Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted
Marvin just breaking into a trot.
We rounded the corner, going right, walked a block and stopped at Cleo’s
usual pooping spot. “Meow! Meow! Meow!” came from behind us. Surprise!
Marvin hadn’t stopped at the stop sign, but was midway through the
cross-street. John went back to
meet him, picked him up, carried him back to the stop sign, set him down and
gave him a nudge toward home. Nice
try. Marvin trotted back to us as fast
as his legs could move, his tummy swaying back and forth. Okay, well, there have been times he’s
followed us another half block or so.
No pooping from Cleo, so we moved on. Half a block later, she changed her mind and dove for the
side of the road (she’s very good about curbing herself). Marvin sat five feet away and waited
patiently. He was farther than
he’d ever come before, and we figured he’d turn around as soon as we were on
the move again. “Don’t look at
him,” John whispered. But Cleo
either didn’t hear or couldn’t help herself. She kept craning her neck to see if he was still there.

He was. The next stage of our walk was a block
long easement, a wooded and bushy natural area of a couple acres. Cleo loves it because it’s full of
smells: raccoons, deer, dozens of
bird species, the occasional skunk.
Surely Marvin wouldn’t follow us through that! He was way beyond his territory and his comfort level at
this point. On he came. By now, we were beginning to
worry. If he decided not to follow
us further, would he be safe getting back home? We’d crossed three streets as well as the easement. Yes, they weren’t busy streets, but
they still could be dangerous.
Okay, we figured we’d go one more block over, then a steep uphill block
that ended at the main thoroughfare of our neighborhood. We couldn’t cross that with
Marvin. By this time, he was no
longer meowing. I hypothesized
that he didn’t want to call attention to himself in the territory of other
cats. By our turn-around spot, he
was a half mile from home.

Our goal for
the return trip was not to lose him.
Back down the steep hill, turn left and a steady march up to the
easement. “Come on, Marvin! Keep up!” we called encouragingly. Cleo checked back regularly. As we got to the easement, Cleo and I
stopped so she could mark her usual spot as John continued on through. Marvin trotted past us. We followed. John turned around to check on us. “What’s he doing?” he asked. Marvin had stopped and as Cleo and I passed him, I looked
down. His mouth was open as if he
were hissing, but no sound was coming out. Thinking of the extra scent receptors cats have on their
upper palates, I said, “Maybe he’s smelling something.” We walked on and Marvin followed
along. Through the easement
(ending in a steep uphill) and up, up, up along the next block. We were back in familiar territory, back
to the place where Marvin usually stops to wait. We looked back.
He was walking now, no longer trotting, and his mouth was open again. “He’s panting!” I realized. Back in the easement, he’d been
stopping to catch his breath.

Think about
it! Seventy-plus degrees, a portly
cat in a heavy fur coat trots nearly a mile. That’s more exercise than he’s gotten in the last six months
combined. It’s a miracle he didn’t
have a heart attack.

Back at the
house, we stood in the driveway waiting for him. He stalked up the street, ignored a pedestrian walking
toward him, turned sharply at our fence, brushed by Cleo without a look, and
collapsed in the shade of John’s car.
He’s been there since. One
large cat’s incredible journey.

Sunday, June 16, 2013

I’m a month
away from engaging in an exercise in profound humility. I’ve signed Cleo and me up for the
obedience trials at the Del Monte Kennel Club show on July 13th and
14th. Yes, yes, go
ahead and remind me how many times I’ve bragged in this space about how
brilliant and intuitive Cleo is.
Let me remind you that she is still a terrier.

Most people
are familiar with the OCD aspect of the terrier’s nature, if only from the
Eddie Murphy Dr. Doolittle
movies. Think of the Parson
Russell Terrier who leaps repeatedly into the shot saying over and over again,
“Throw the ball, throw the ball, throw the ball.” Bedlingtons, or at least Cleo, aren’t quite so disturbingly
fixated. Nonetheless, there is
still the element of distraction to be considered. Many’s the time that Cleo has failed to respond to a command
as we’ve been working, and when I pop her collar, she turns to look at me with
an expression that says, “I’m sorry, were you saying something? I couldn’t hear you because I was
staring at that beetle over there.”
Put her into a ring with a bunch of new dogs, spectators and other
events going on all around her? My
heart quails.

I’m going to
lobby Pluis, our trainer, to hold some of our classes outside over the next few weeks. The event in July will be on grass. It seems a little unfair: Dogs who
relieve themselves during the event are immediately disqualified. That’s not what concerns me for Cleo. I’m pretty sure that as long as she
pees before we start, she’ll be okay;
she’s not big into marking.
But she does associate grass with playtime. Okay, she associates most things with playtime. Yet, she can be contained at our indoor
classes.

Of course,
the other day, she was a bit resentful that Pluis wasn’t paying enough
attention to her. Usually, Pluis
will acknowledge a dog’s longing looks with a gentle, “Yes, I see you.” This assuages most dogs for the time
being. For whatever reason, Cleo
had not gotten her usual reassurance of existence and worth from Pluis. She
found her moment when we were practicing long-distance recall. We were the last in the class of about
sixteen to go. Cleo is always
reliable in the stay. When we go
last, though, she can be hesitant to come across the wide floor, especially if
any of the dogs have been extra-exuberant in their own recalls. But I had taken the opportunity of a
late start to our class last Monday to practice recalls outside on the
grass. Cleo had been impressive,
even to me. So I confidently told her
to stay and strode out onto the floor.
Before I was halfway across, one of the working dog moms looked at me
pityingly. She made an embarrassed
gesture behind me. I turned
around. Cleo was mincing her way
toward Pluis. The closer she got,
the more she lowered herself until, about two feet away, she was crawling on
her belly like a soldier traversing open ground under fire. Still about six inches from Pluis’
shoes, she started turning her front-half upside down, paddling closer with her
rear feet. As the top of her head
hit Pluis’ toe, Cleo flipped her back feet around and presented her tummy. I mean really! It was an embarrassing display of
subservience. Such a show would
not go over well at an obedience trial.

Rock climbing girl with Dad

The outdoors
is one great jungle gym for Cleo.
Last weekend, John and I took her for our regular walk to the
beach. We frequent a
boulder-strewn spot these days where all three of us love to hop from rock to
rock until we can stare into the tidepools (or, for some of us, wade in them up
to our armpits). Between two rocky
beaches is a cliff covered with iceplant.
The cliff falls away sharply, at about a thirty degree slant, down to a
narrow strip of rocks and sand fifteen feet below. As I picked my way up the slope to the top of the cliff, I
heard John, several yards ahead of me, yell, “S***! Cleo!!” Running
along next to John at the top of the cliff, she had suddenly decided that there
was something interesting over the side.
Without a pause, she simply went over the edge, leaping like a mountain
goat from one iceplant foothold to the next. Because she was hugging the cliff, she was quickly out of our
sight. Had she managed to control
her descent the whole way? As John
went back in the direction we had come, I ran forward, both of us trying to
make our way off the cliff and down to the beach. “There she is!” John yelled. Realizing that she could no longer see us, Cleo had decided
to return along the rocks to the beach we had just left. “Cleo, here we are,” John called to
her, directing her up the sandy trail that led to the top of the cliff. With three bounds from rock to rock,
Cleo headed up to him, but not along the trail. She went straight back up the side of the cliff. The three of us together at the top
once more, I leaned down to pat her.
“I have got to get you back
into agility class,” I told her.

So I’m
actually not all that concerned about being served a breakfast of humble pie come
mid-July. Last year, it was at
this same show that Cleo earned her Therapy Dog title. I was so nervous about that trial that
I was nauseated and sleepless the whole night before. Yet here we are, almost a year later. My girl is a welcome fixture at school. The book has been published. And most
of all, she is healthy, happy, beautiful.
And oh-so-very loved by her mom and dad.